


bill denbrough, lion heart.

by darlenedytee



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, bill denbrough is literally my favourite person in the universe, i idolize the losers ngl, life is fucking hard sometimes guys, no relationships are directly addressed so u don't have to read it as a romance if u don't want to, the losers said friendship goals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 03:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlenedytee/pseuds/darlenedytee
Summary: “I know,” Ben adds. “I can tell when it starts to upset you. But Bill, don't you get it? You're the lionheart. You’re the closest thing to the word ‘good’ I've ever seen. I look up to you, and that isn’t tainted by your speech impediment.”The silence that follows speaks volumes, and Bill hopes it’s saying ‘Thank you’.





	bill denbrough, lion heart.

**Author's Note:**

> wowow so this was a request and bill is my favourite character like ever so i just had to do it. I hope its alright. As stated in the tags you don't have to read any of this romantically if you don't want to, its all up to you!
> 
> (warning for underage drinking, and swearing.)

_he thrusts his fists against the post, and still insists he sees the ghost._

The phrase that used to coddle him, now wraps its fickle limbs around his airway and finds home atop his tongue. Resting wickedly, tempting him to speak. Tempting him to try to find a semblance of normality within the chaos.

But where is the normality in abnormality? The answer is, its not there. The two words are worlds apart, and the line that draws between the two is thick and bolded, clear as day.

Bill used to try to dress his abnormality up as something else, something safer. Because some things can be shielded from the cruel heat of the daylight. Some illnesses are easily tucked away. But Bill’s? it burns in the rays. Bright, hot, and propped up on a pedestal. It sits for strangers to pity, and friends to pretend not to notice.

It’s the nature of the game. You either suck it up and deal with the shit life gives you, or you stumble and fall, spending your whole life learning how to get back up again. Bill never thought he was one of those people. The ones who fell, that is. Sure, he cried sometimes. But didn’t everyone? His struggles were amplified, of course. But you don’t know how good the good can get until you’ve hit your lowest.

There was a time when he was younger that he remembers clear as day. It was the afternoon he realized he would always be ‘that boy with the stutter.’ He’d never be Bill Denbrough, but instead he’d be cursed with ‘Stuttering Bill’ until his final breath. “Goodbye, Stuttering Bill.” They’ll weep. “Hope you don’t have a speech impediment in the afterlife, too.”

The memory is bitter, snakelike. His classmates had been playing ‘Telephone’. And when he’d sat in the circle to join, an audible groan fell upon the group. “You can’t talk, Bill.” Libby Thompson had frowned, pitiful. “If you play we’ll never win.” Which was probably true. But Bill still cried under the willow tree at the playground that day anyway. Throwing rocks over the school fence in a fit of frustration.

People do grow up, though. And maturity washed over Bill at the age of seventeen. Because now, he’s alright. Alright as one in his position could be he supposes. He no longer cries at the weird gawks, or rises to the taunts of Bowers and his goons. He just takes it, and stores it away in a lockbox far in the back of his mind.

It’s probably not healthy. But a temporary solution always seems like a permanent one at the time of it being done.

He secludes the anger. But still, sometimes it isn't quite enough. Sometimes he still feels like that boy under the willow tree.

“Bill, will you read the passage aloud?” Miss Gibson says. She’s a substitute teacher, obviously. Because Bill doesn’t remember the last time a teacher willingly picked on him to read. It’s always a nuisance to everyone, including himself.

The class, seems to reciprocate in his feelings, as a group of groans can be heard at the back of class, mixed with a few high pitched giggles. He ignores it. Lockbox.

“These v-violent delights, h-have v-v-v-vi-v-.” Bill takes a breath, brow creasing. “Have v-v-violent ends. And in t-t-t-their t-t-t-t-”

  
“Never mind, dear.” Miss Gibson says, eyes apologetic. “I didn’t know, I apologize. Marcus, will you read the passage aloud?”

  
A graceful, “Thank fuck!” is let out by Jack Otis, which sends out another chorus of giggles from the semi-popular girls who sit in the back left corner of class. Miss Gibson scolds them, going on a rant about accepting differences within ones community instead of pointing fingers and discriminating against those with struggles we don’t quite understand.

Bill, has had enough. He slumps in his seat and blocks out Miss Gibson’s words by counting ceiling tiles. Ben is in this class as well, and when Bill gets a note passed to his desk, he already knows who its from.

_Hey Bill, you seem down. I hope what the teacher said isn't making you upset. I’m here if you need to talk. - Ben :)_

The note is sweet, and it makes Bill smile despite himself. Its in Ben’s nature to check up on him. Ben’s heart is about as warm as the summer heat of the Dominican. Bill turns the note over, scribbling out a rushed, _Thanks, but I’m okay, just tired_. on the back, before handing in to Greta Keene, who tosses it to Ben.

Ben scrambles to open the note immediately, and after reading it gives Bill a sympathetic smile. “Okay,” He mouths, before directing his attention back to the front.

Bill mutters, ‘He thrusts his fists against the post, and still insists he sees the ghost.’ under his breath until the end of period.

He doesn't say it right once.

At lunch, Bill feels like a mute. Some days, the words just don’t fall from his lips like they usually do. The timing of it all is usually uncontrollable. And nothing makes him more upset, nothing.

Richie is conversing with the entire group about taking his old man’s car to the field near the edge of town, and spending the night in the back of it, a couple bottles of something hard close by. Stan is pursing his lips, and Eddie is arguing. Something in semblance to the word ‘STD’ falls from his lips, and Bill can’t help but want to smash his head against the cool cafeteria table as hard as he can.

He usually gets this way. Numb. So unbearably numb that if he tried to recall the way Georgie’s eyes shone on the last day he saw him, he couldn’t. Everything he thinks is as shallow as a puddle, and his tongue feels limp.

He must be too quiet though, or maybe he just looks a little too sad. Because Stan, who always sits beside him, is leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “Hey, you okay? You’re being unusually quiet.” He murmurs, eyes searching Bill’s face for an answer. “Not that you’re normally loud, but, you get the point.” He continues, a small smile on his lips.

Stan is nice because Stan is constant. Nothing he ever does is unexpected. It’s what Bill loves most about him. He’s reliable for a certain type of comfort. He’s always been Bill’s favourite. He’d never tell a soul, though. Stan would hold it over him until the day he died. “Why are you upset Bill? I thought I was your favourite.” He’d tease, and Bill would stick his tongue out, cheeks pink, muttering something along the lines of “Fuck off.” Or, “You’re an ass.”

“I’m f-f-f-f-fuck. I’m f-fine.” Bill says, frustrated with himself as he seems to stumble over every syllable.

“Okay,” Stan replies. He’s still obviously unconvinced, But he let’s it go and Bill is thankful. Stan always knows how far to push. He makes himself available, but not persistent. It’s nice to have someone like him.

Beverley shows up minutes later, completing the Losers club. She’s carrying flask in her right hand, and waves it at the group, urging them to follow her out behind the school.

“What a scandal, Miss Marsh.” Richie fakes, gawking. “Your sweetheart persona is ruined.”

“Fuck off, Tozier. We ditching or not?” She laughs. “Third and fourth are a drag, anyway. Besides, what are Fridays for if not ditching early? You still planning on taking your dads car Rich, or were you just talking out of your ass?”

“Fuck yeah!” He cheers, slamming his hands down hard on the table. Eddie instantly scolds him, and Richie attempts to lick his face in retaliation.

“Your such a Trashmouth.” Eddie whines, pushing the taller boy away.

“Yes, well sweetheart the nickname isn’t coincidence.”

“Guys,” Beverley interrupts, tugging at Mike’s arm so he stands up. “Let’s go.”

The whole group agrees, surprisingly. And Bill finds himself left without an option. He was planning on locking himself in his room for the next twenty four hours to let the numbness seep to nothing. But apparently thats not an option anymore.

So they all rush out of school, and to Richie’s house. When they get there, they pile themselves into the truck, unsafely, but they agree that it’s alright because the drive is short. Richie is driving. Eddie is in the passenger seat. Stan, Ben and Bill are in the back. Whilst Beverley and Mike sit in the back of the truck. They howl with laughter as the car runs through puddles, and hits potholes.

Bill, is still silent. And he’s also more achingly numb than before. He’s not even all that sure why, either. He’s not mad about what Miss Gibson said. Much worse has been taunted at him, and he’s had much smaller reactions to those than this. So he finds himself wishing to understand his own thought process. His own decision of what sticks and what doesn’t.

Stan, who is sitting to his right, sighs audibly. “Richie, pull over for a minute.”

Bill gives him a look of disapproval, but Stan doesn’t even turn to look at him.

Richie, seems to get the message, and without even a quip pulls onto the side of the dirt road. Stan unbuckles, and ushers the group to do the same. “Back of the truck,” He says, stepping out and shutting his door. They all follow Stan. And even if Bill is hesitant and quite honestly angry, he does too.

Beverley and Mike are sitting in the back. Beverley is digging through Richie’s cooler for something, but Mike has an eyebrow raised, confused. “What’s wrong? Did Richie’s dad’s shit car finally break down?”

“Hey!” Richie shouts, “You take that back! Robyn is a reliable truck. You just don’t know her like I do!” He says, eyes dramatic. Eddie, smacks him in the arm as the group all make themselves comfortable sitting in the back of the truck.

“Wow,” Richie starts again, much to everyones annoyance. “This dirt road is quite the sight. I say we interrupt our trip so we can stop here and see the sights every time! Don’t you?”

“Beep beep.” Eddie says. “What’s up, Stan.”

“I just-” Stan begins, suddenly seeming unsure with himself. “I- you know what. Never mind, its not important.”

“Of course it is,” Beverley pops her head out the the cooler to look at him. “You can tell us anything.”

Stan’s eyes are weary, and they’re staring uncomfortably at Bill. “Do you hate me?” Stan whispers.

Bill, is shocked to say the least. “What? w-w-w-hy w-would you t-t-t-hink t-t-t-that?” He stutters. And as he speaks he remembers why he hasn't been.

“I just- I feel like you don’t trust me anymore. It’s like, you're sad all the time, and I know you are! I’m not an idiot. And like, I'm not blaming you for being upset. I just don’t get it. Because you- you used to tell me everything Bill. And now you don’t. And I don’t think its your fault so it must be mine. I just wish I knew what changed.” He says, eyes trained on his lap. “I miss you. I feel like we aren’t close anymore. And i’m worried it’s my fault, that maybe I'm pushing you away.”  
  
Bill’s eyes are glassy, and he’s already begun preparing himself for the shit show of tears. Stan had been feeling this way because of him? How selfish could Bill be? He thought his silence would shield them from the annoyance of dealing with a problem they couldn’t begin to solve.

The rest of the losers are quiet, but listening intently.

“I d-d—dont hate you, S-S-S-tan. I c-c-c-ould n-n-never hu-hate you.” Bill frowns. “I’m s-s-sorry.” He mutters.

“Bill I’m not mad at you.” Stan says, confused. “I just want to be there for you.”

The rest of the group nods along, and Ben goes to hug Bill, who embraces it, before pulling away, composing himself.

“I j-j-just,” Bill starts, running a hand down his face. “I feel l-like a b-b-burden.”

The group seems to have a mixture of reactions. Richie, Beverley, Stan, and Mike seem shocked. But Ben and Eddie seem to have expected this answer.

“Bill,” Ben says, breaking the silence. “Your stutter doesn’t make you any less a good person.”

“Is that what this is about?” Stan asks, frowning. “Bill, we love you no matter what. Your stutter is nothing.”

Bill rolls his eyes at that. “B-B-B-Bullshit. It’s f-f-f-fucking annoying as shit and you k-know it.” He’s angry, and he thinks he has a right to be angry. He just can’t seem to figure out who he’s mad at. It’s not any of the losers. Maybe it’s himself.

“Bill, we don’t find your stutter annoying.” Beverley says. “Do you find Eddie’s asthma attacks annoying?”

“Nuh-no of c-c-course n-not.”

“Well how is your stutter any different? Neither of you can control it, so you just gotta live with it. And that’s okay Bill. That’s just the way life is.”

“It k-kills me, Bev. I c-cant take it anymore. It’s duh-driving m-me insane.”

“I know,” Ben adds. “I can tell when it starts to upset you. But Bill, don't you get it? You're the lionheart. You’re the closest thing to the word ‘good’ I've ever seen. I look up to you, and that isn’t tainted by your speech impediment.”

The silence that follows speaks volumes, and Bill hopes it’s saying ‘Thank you’.

“Bill,” Stan begins, wiping a tear from his chin. “Please, talk to me. I wan’t to be there for you. It hurts me not to be. For you to think your a weight to be carried. I’d do anything for you. Anything.”

Bill nods, scrunching his eyes closed. “I love you guys.” He whispers.

“I love you too”s follow in a mixed chorus. And Bill is pretty sure it’s the closest to whole he’s felt in a while.

They all begin to compose themselves, and Bill reaches for Beverley’s flask, jokingly muttering out a “Let’s see if I can m-make this F-F-Friday even m-more of a sh-shit show, yeah?” The group laughs, and the drive to the field is much lighter than it had been before.

Bill Denbrough, feels a semblance of home, numbness seeping.

And guess what? It feels pretty fucking good.


End file.
